


Shatter

by ememoria



Category: Legion of Super Heroes
Genre: Aftermath, Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, M/M, PTSD, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ememoria/pseuds/ememoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Rift has been stitched shut, the gaping holes left behind become apparent. </p>
<p>[Takes place in the days following Legion of Superheroes #125]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> I always considered Lyle to be 18 at least, however this story depicts a relationship between two people with a significant age difference. Also, as mentioned in the tags, there is fade-to-black sex between these characters while one is in a state where consent is dubious.

It was 1:39AM when Condo Arlik finally allowed himself to go to bed. 

He took off his reading glasses, closed and locked the confidential files stored on his vid screen, then stood for what felt like the first time in weeks. Letting out a long, unsatisfied groan that pressed against the raw surface of his nerve gnawed lips, the reporter pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to find the world underneath his feet again. The hours had quickly folded into one another, dragging on and on as minimal facts became words and stories digestible to the general public. And now, from where Condo stood as the storyteller, it was hard to remember what day it even was anymore. 

It was just… after. 

After the panicked phone calls and countless information sources that had to be checked, rechecked and triple checked. After contacting other branches of their network to hunt down any possible video feeds or eyewitness accounts. After trying over and over to find something to give weight to what exactly had happened. 

And what exactly had been prevented.  

As he turned off the lights on his desk, bathing the apartment in darkness, the night sky expanded outside of his window. Up 90 stories, the dappling of stars wasn’t obscured by streetlights so easily. They stretched out infinitely and looked very much the same as it had every night he’d laid down to sleep. 

But he knew it was not the same.

 Because the Legion Outpost was destroyed. 

You could see the debris from Titan, which had been rattled so hard by the event it had nearly been ripped from space itself. There was a large scar in the sky where the universe was stitched together by hasty but finite quantum manipulation. And where the metal skeleton of the Outpost was scattered like a tossed deck of cards. Those first few static shattered images of the concave station were still able to grip at his throat like a vice even after days of staring at them. By the time the distress signals had come through, by the time the first escape pods had been recovered and their occupants had staggered out, the impressive converted satellite had already been twisted and bent beyond recognition. 

One by one, as the shock wore off each recovered yet deeply shaken Outpost personnel, it all came spilling out; the space tear, the mission that failed, the scramble for safety—

Yes, in the end, they had done their job. They had staying out where the universe was collapsing to slowly stitch it back together.

Yes. The Legion of Superheroes had saved everyone. But at a cost they haven’t even begun to manage counting. 

And there was no sign of Lyle Norg anywhere.

As he sank down into his cool sheets, Condo felt his emotions catch on snags in his resolve, and quickly pressed the heels of his palms into his exhaustion stung eyes. He hadn’t spoken to the young man properly in a few months. Save for an interview in the wake of the Durlan crisis, there just hadn’t been any time. Not that it was unusual. They both had lives that were far more important and demanding then any romance. He was a reporter, and Lyle was a Legionnaire, they were too mutually career minded to last. They had talked it through, too. Several times. Seriously thinking it over together and logically reaching the same conclusion that their courting was officially over: 

_“You’re my friend. I love you so much, but this just isn’t fair.”_

_“I know, I feel the same way. I’m sorry, I’ll miss you.”_  

And yet whenever their schedules lined up perfectly that rare once or twice a year, there they were again. Together. Flirting and kissing and throwing a veil of pretending over themselves for just a moment reprieve from the outside world. It was a never-ending tango for two and it was easy to the point of guilt; tying one another down, having a consistent reassurance in the back of their minds that the other would always be there. That they had that one thing that was easy and effortless to look forward to. Too effortless. 

As if that alone wasn’t damning enough; he was nearly a decade the young man’s senior. Even though the Legionnaire’s brilliance made the numbers seem trivial, it was still there; in the way he bit his lip and the way his hair fell into his eyes and the way he smiled so fondly up at his older lover.  

However, Condo honestly didn’t see it so starkly until he watched Lyle with his teammates over a year ago. The Legion had been in a rare moment of mutual ease at a public celebration, a couple members standing in a half circle, smiling and laughing about some odd joke or another he’d been too far away to hear. When you couldn’t see their eyes up close—each set with a maturity and degree of shadow beyond their years —  they all looked so small, like the great gape of their responsibility was swallowing them whole. And guilt he could not deny had gnawed on his gut as he watched his boy (boy, _boy_ , he was only a boy, wasn’t he?) lean in close to mutter something into Brainiac 5’s ear, his nose brushing the green shell… 

When he dragged Lyle away from them… when he took him by his arm and smuggled him to a cafe or a park or even between his own sheets, Condo wouldn’t see that anymore. All he would see was the brilliant flash of intellect in brown eyes and a pin-sharp wit his aged peers could only dream to posses. However, when he saw that same young man interweaving his fate with those of his baby-faced friends, Condo could not imagine attempting to even engage that young man, could not conceive stepping forward into their midst to tangle their fingers together in front of those multiple pairs of shadowed eyes...

That wasn't right, was it? It wasn't right to feel ashamed to be seen with your lover.

Yet Lyle had aways reassured him. If he even began to suggest his concerns, the boy would roll over and straddle his waist, looking down at him with an annoyed wrinkle in his nose. “Forget everyone else. If I’m old enough to risk my life every day,” He would say, “I’m old enough to pick my lovers” before leaning down to prove his point.

But that had been months ago. 

This was now. After.

Condo cursed himself under his breath. Thinking about Lyle brought the tragedy too close, fraying at the edges of his psyche. His imagination would then be inclined towards the unspeakable things his young ex-lover had likely seen or endured, to imagining his corpse tossed into the endlessness of space or his atoms scattered with the remains of the ship he’d produced while Legion Leader. He could not think of Lyle as his anymore. Not his lover, not his ex-lover, nothing. He had to think of him as a Legionnaire. A Legionnaire that very well could be dead.

And he had to tell the whole of the United Planets about it. Looking respectfully, distantly upset and not rattled to his absolute core—

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Condo inhaled sharply, freezing. In the corner of his eye the clock flashed 2:23AM. The despair induced doze that had finally begun to settle over his body was quickly snapped away like a sheet. Had that been a knock? Or the kick of his own heart in his ears?

As if to answer, two sharp bangs against his front door rang out again. Pointed. Quick. Desperate. 

_Thump. Thump._

His coworkers wouldn’t send a runner over to his apartment unless there had been a serious development. Someone had come forward with information. Someone had released a statement. 

Had they found the missing Legion members? Grife, had they found _bodies_? 

The reporter ignored making himself presentable in favor of reaching the door in two seconds flat. Blankets were left kicked off and scattered across the bedroom floor in his wake. His grip on the door handle slipped with the sudden sweat that was coating his fingers. He barely managed to override the digital locks to allow the door to open. The crisp summer night air rushed in and he only got to take half a breath before it was escaping from his lungs in a great rush—

Lyle Norg was standing on his door step. 

Hot static feedback blared in Condo’s ears.

Underneath an obviously borrowed jacket that hung two sizes too big off the boy’s frame, his uniform was torn apart. An entire sleeve appeared to be missing. His iconic headband was gone as well. Windburn ate at his cheekbones, the exposed shoulder and collar, his torn up lips. His breath was shallow and quick, each inhale and exhale a dramatic lift and fall. The Legion ring gleamed in the hall lights like molten metal on his left hand. 

“Lyle, grife, Lyle—” Condo cupped the young man’s face in his hands, touched his neck, his shoulders, the rhythm of his heart against his ribs. He was alive. Scattered. Rattled. But alive. Wide brown eyes darted over Condo’s face, circling from cheekbones to chin to eyes and back around again and Condo felt a little piece of himself flake away with each hyper-focused repetition.

“What happened? Lyle. _What happened_?”

Between his hands, the Legionnaire’s head gave the most minimal of shakes.

“You have to tell me. We thought you were all dead. Why aren’t you at the hospital? How did you—“

A mouth, wild and desperate, was over his in a split second. Their teeth clashed, noses smashing, but Condo couldn’t bring himself to care, allowing the Legionnaire to claw his way up into his arms, looping one under the young man to keep him aloft. Sliding the door shut with a hand on the keypad, he pressed Lyle against it, stealing away the pained whimper that escaped the boy with his tongue, molding their bodies against one another and reviling in each push and pull of the other man against him. 

Alive. 

Eventually, they found a moment to stagger through his apartment, Lyle pulling at his hair and biting his lower lip the whole way until they passed the threshold into Condo’s room. The damp jacket that the younger man wore was lost along the way, tossed over the nearby couch with practiced precision. The reporter then bore his companion onto the bed, crawling over the Legionnaire a second later. 

Lyle gazed up at him, pupils blown wide as he anxiously grasped handfuls of Condo’s sheets between his fingers. His lips and chin quivered, and Condo couldn’t resist attempting to kiss the tremble away with his mouth and fingers. Soothing as he smoothed his touch across what remained of Lyle's uniform.

Alive.

“Shh, shh…” He whispered as Lyle shook apart. Condo worshiped the writhing body under him, thanking every deity in the universe he could think of with each dig of nails into his back, each convulse and each bitten back noise. 

Alive.

Alive.

_Alive_.

Above him, Lyle tipped his head back and sobbed into the dark.

 

_____ 

 

It was 4:47AM when Condo Altrik woke up with the bed empty beside him.

Lyle was in the bathroom on his knees, head in the toilet, retching violently. 

The reporter lingered in the hallway, just outside the doorway, toes curling in the carpet and his mouth dry as Lyle made a disgusting gagging sound in the back of his throat, gasping for air between dry heaves. 

In the unforgiving light of the bathroom, Condo was suddenly aware of how skinny the young man looked; now naked save for a pair of briefs, the ribs under Lyle’s skin were obvious and convulsing with each rough turn of his stomach. Bruises and long, jagged gashes just barely healed over littered the Legionnaire’s back and shoulders. Sharp punctures from edges of metal. Nails were missing from a couple of the teen’s long fingers and bruises wrapped around the knuckles. The marks of clinging to something for dear life. It had been easier to ignore when he was running his hands over hot, papery skin, but from a few feet away he couldn’t help but see now the white washed ghost that knelt on the tiled floor. 

“Sorry.” Lyle muttered miserably, his face streaked with tears. Eyes, sunken and red, could not quite meet Condo’s. The Legionnaire turned away to spit into the toilet, fumbling up to flush it afterwards. They did not speak for a long moment as Lyle took a couple pitiful hiccuping breaths and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The silence vibrated around them, echoing off the linoleum until it twinged in Condo’s muscles. 

“I was at the hospital.”

“…What?” For a second he was sure he’d imagined Lyle speaking, if only to break the growing tension in his own brain and fingers. Brown eyes briefly flicked over to him, still wet, as the Legionnaire leaned back until he rested against the bathtub, staring at the sink with eyes half closed. Resigned.

“Since yesterday. That’s why I didn’t come sooner. Cos needed me there. He was…” He stopped. Worked his jaw. Ducked his head and ran a hand through his matted hair stiffly. “They’re gone.” 

Without any emphasis, the words took their few moments to sink in. When they finally did, they left a small gouges in their wake, like nails into skin, that traveled in shivers down his limbs. Condo ran his tongue over his teeth. Jittery. 

He needed to know more. And he hated himself for it.

“…Who? Who is gone?” 

A muscle near Lyle’s mouth jumped. 

“Imra and Garth.” 

Saturn Girl and Livewire. Two of the three Founders. The fortification and heart of the Legion. Condo had interviewed them both several times. Not enough to form a significant connection outside of pleasentries, but their kindess and determination had been obvious. No wonder Lyle had felt it necessary to stay by Cosmic Boy’s side, with such a significant loss ringing in his ears—

“…Drake. Umbra. Ultra Boy.” But Lyle hadn’t stopped. Names continued to tumble out, each with less certainty then the last as if the number was the only understandable factor. “Monstress. Element Lad. Kid Quantum.” His lower lip trembled but his voice remained steady. No. Not steady. Empty.  “Cham." The Legionnaire blinked slowly, brown eyes wavering like he had been tempted to look over at the reporter, but then thought better of it. "And Brainy.”

Brainiac 5.

_Lyle, leaning his head in to whisper into Brainiac 5’s ear. The Coluan twitching, somehow managing to shift away but curl in close at the same time. The way the harsh, intense features of the 12-level intellectual had gone soft, soft, just along the edges. A green hand fluttering it’s way up to cup Lyle’s elbow, dropping away before completing it’s task. The way Lyle's eyes glowed, even from so far away, as he pulled back. How he fought a smile and failed, making his lips warp and tremble. And what was worse; the green-skinned, constantly serious and humorless boy was_ **_smiling back at Lyle_** _, not with his mouth but with his eyes and his fingers and the way he shifted like he wanted to keep Lyle safe from all angles in a way Condo never could…_  

He couldn't swallow for a few moments.

“We were right next to them. Triad and I, we were…” Lyle licked his lips. Took a short breath. “I told Brainy to keep the flames back with his forcefield. I made him wait instead of…” 

"No, no..." Condo slowly knelt beside him, only reaching out and pressing his fingers into dark hair when the other didn't turn away. His touch gartered no reaction. “You didn’t know what would happen.”  

Lyle didn’t look at him. Instead, his jaw worked as he scrutinized the sink, throat bobbing around words that refused to surface. The young man squinted, as if the answers to this tragedy were written somewhere in his warped reflection in the linoleum.  

"You're not responsible, Lyle. You couldn't have saved--" 

A strong, insistent hand suddenly shoved Condo away so the man was tumbling back onto the tile, barely catching himself with one arm. Looking up, he only had a moment to watch Lyle crumble in onto himself, like the twisted shell of the Outpost itself, pressing, digging fingers into his solar plexus. The boy (boy, boy, he was only just boy, wasn’t he?) scrambled for the toilet once again, ducking his head over it and gasping. A great shudder shook through his core, and it was hard to tell if it was starting from his gut or his heart. Bracing one hand against the back wall, Lyle curled over the bowl, gagging around emotions because there was nothing for his stomach to give up. Spit ran from his gaping, horribly kiss swollen, bleeding lips, but new tears refused to fall, instead clinging to his lashes.

Lyle’s long, calculated inhales were the only sound as they echoed in the tight, tiny room. Every other one was tinged with hitches that he was likely keeping from maturing into sobs from sheer, unbelievable force of will. Deep, deep and through his nose he breathed, his shoulders rising and falling with each one. 

He looked so small. And so very, very young.

Condo, when he worked up the nerve, reached out and settled his hand, open, palm up, on the floor between them. He kept it there, pressed against the cold floor, offering.

Even long after Lyle refused to acknowledge it.

 


End file.
